


Different Schools of Thought

by firefright, Skalidra



Category: DCU (Comics), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Witcher Fusion, Casual Sex, Fade to Black, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Non-Graphic Violence, Threesome - M/M/M, Witcher Slade Wilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:28:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22854712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/pseuds/firefright, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: "What did you do to yourhair?"Slade turns his head, clearing the blind spot of his missing eye to find the source of that irritating, all too familiar voice. Black hair, brilliant blue eyes, with the finest, tailored doublet in rich blue and black laced close to his chest. Lean, handsome to an unnaturally perfect degree, and with enough power in his bones to kill anyone in this room, except for him.Probably.It'd be a hell of a fight.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Comments: 77
Kudos: 515





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firefright](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/gifts).



> Welcome! This was a birthday gift for my dear friend, Firefright. We've had quite a few talks about the potentials of a Witcher!Slade, and the shenanigans that might ensue, so I went ahead and wrote some of it down for them. Enjoy!

"What did you do to your _hair?_ "

Slade turns his head, clearing the blind spot of his missing eye to find the source of that irritating, all too familiar voice. Black hair, brilliant blue eyes, with the finest, tailored doublet in rich blue and black laced close to his chest. Lean, handsome to an unnaturally perfect degree, and with enough power in his bones to kill anyone in this room, except for him.

Probably.

It'd be a hell of a fight.

Richard Grayson sweeps up to him with no fear for his skill or reputation, a hand lifting to brush his newly chin-length hair away from his eyepatch without a trace of the wariness he should have. Grayson trusts too much that he'll keep to the codes that govern them, at least when it comes to not killing without a contract, or in self defense. Someday, he might regret not taking caution; Grayson's fast, but not fast enough to stop him severing that hand with a blade if it takes liberties he doesn't feel like allowing that particular day. Then again, Slade's not hurt him yet. Not in any way he didn't enjoy, anyway.

At this moment, he's more amused by the distraught horror in the depths of Grayson's pretty eyes than irritated by the touch.

"Grayson. Didn't know you'd be here. Switched courts again, or just escorting some puffed up lord?"

"Escorting," is his answer, but it's a distracted one. "Slade, what did you _do?_ "

He lifts an eyebrow. "It's called a haircut, Grayson. Been using magic so long you forget what the rest of us do?"

Grayson gives him a look more exasperated than anything else. "What I meant was _why?_ Was it a beast? A curse? You've never had any problems with the length before." There's a brief pause where Grayson was maybe going to wait for an answer, but before he can give one he quickly says, "I can grow it back. Let me just—"

He snaps a hand up and grabs Grayson's wrist before he can say a thing, or let loose any of the bright blue energy just starting to gather in his eyes. His swift movement gets flinches from the nobles around them, even the ones that were already not-so-subtly eyeing the pair they make. Grayson doesn't pay any attention to them, but then he's never been the kind to care what others think of him, unless they're among those he counts as friends. He’s only as political as he needs to be, in exactly the circles he needs to be.

"Rather not see what that'll do. Hands off, kid." He's not eager to find out what reaction hair-growing magic will have with his natural resistance; it might be as likely to set fire to it as do anything useful.

Grayson's eyes ease back to a more normal hue, his fingers reluctantly loosing the locks he was weaving around them. He sighs, pulls his hand free and Slade lets him. "Oh, alright. But you owe me the story, then. Let's find somewhere to sit; you can tell me what happened."

He follows, idly, as Grayson sweeps off across the room, towards the clusters of tables at the edges. "I owe you, hm?"

It's hard to tell if how people clear out of Grayson's way is a result of the confidence he walks with, or some small twist of magic to nudge their minds just enough to make it happen. Some of both, most likely. Mages don't tend to be shy about using their power to get their way; even better when the little normal people don't realize it's happening. There's a reason mages have nearly as much of a reputation as witchers. Power-mad, dangerous, manipulative… It's not inaccurate, in Slade's experience. Grayson's saner than most.

Well, sane enough to be trusted not to go mad. Not sane enough to stay away from the dangers Slade represents.

Sane or not, though, Grayson is smart enough to pick the battles he wants to fight. Instead of even acknowledging his question, Grayson uses that magnetic charm of his to summon one of the circling servants to follow them to a small table next to the wall. "Ale for him," he says, as he takes a seat, "wine for me. Two plates, as well. Heavy on the meat for him."

Slade sits down in the other chair with a lifted eyebrow, leaning back into the seat. Grayson's not wrong, it's just amusing to watch. "How's life among the high and mighty?" he asks, as the servant hurries away to fetch what he's been asked for.

"More of the same," is Grayson's flippant response. "Keeping the peace, managing the nobles, shows of force. Nothing's changed." He leans forward. "So, tell me what happened."

It would be easy to just give Grayson anything he wants. He's got the smile, the looks, everything that he needs to make people want to please him. It's part of the mage package, but Grayson's good at it beyond that. He's a natural at talking people around to his point of view.

They've known each other a long time, though, and Slade's had more than enough experience playing Grayson's kind of game.

He crosses his arms, gives a thin smirk that no one but Grayson would consider friendly. "You know I don't do things for free, sorcerer. My time costs."

The thing is, Grayson knows their game too. His smile is full of the kind of promise that Slade appreciates. "And what would you want as payment, witcher?"

"Coin, usually." Slade lets himself take in — slow enough to draw it out — the perfect angle of Grayson's jaw, and the slightly softer line of his neck, where there's just enough skin revealed to show the hollow of his throat and the shimmering blue gem that hangs there. "I'm not cheap."

"Well…” Grayson leans a little further in, eyes glowing bright enough that the medallion hiding under Slade's shirt vibrates against his skin. "Then it's a good thing I'm expensive, too."

* * *

The night is hours too long, but not as terrible as some he's been too. Once Grayson leaves their table he sticks to the edges of the crowds, scaring half the little noble guests away simply by virtue of his existence, and insulting the other half either intentionally, or just because he's smarter than they are. He's not concerned with it; witchers don't have a good reputation to begin with, and particularly not the school that made him. They've earned that, and he's not interested in trying to play ambassador and fix it.

So what if they hate his kind? Not a one of them can kill, endure, or track like he can, and there are monsters aplenty in the world. Like it or not, they need him, and anyone that rejects their necessity, well… They're welcome to deal with all the horrors of the world by themselves, and come crawling back when they realize their mistake.

Besides, most of them are hypocrites. The very things they look down upon are the things they then value when they seek his services, including his willingness to ignore some of the more limiting aspects of the witcher code. Rules that most other witchers, from more rigid schools, would never think to break. Those taught to him were always a little more flexible in nature, however.

His steel sword sees nearly as much use as his silver, most years; monsters come in more shapes than abominations, and as long as he's paid, well… he doesn't feel the need to distinguish between those that look human, and those that don't.

He studies the nobles as they move around him. Pinpoints what he can about them from overheard conversations, mannerisms. Devises a strategy to kill everyone in the room, to pass the time. The theoretical problem of dealing with the various mages takes enough work to unravel to keep him from boredom, at least for a time.

Eventually the night draws towards a close, as the drunken guests begin to outnumber the relatively sober. Across the room, at the side of the pompous little man he's escorting, Grayson catches his eye. It's a dance they've done many times.

Grayson makes his farewells and slips out of the room just a few minutes later. Slade takes his time lingering, watching the very last guests start to disperse before he follows suit. At the door, all it takes is a breath and a moment to pinpoint Grayson's scent, track it left down a hallway, then right, up stairs… Grayson's waiting inside. So is a bath.

Slade has no intention of refusing either of those things. He takes pleasures where he can find them, especially when freely offered. Besides, Grayson and water is an excellent combination. Leaning back in the hot bath, watching him unlace that doublet and let each layer of silky cloth slide to the ground at his feet, is one of the finest views in the land. Olive-tinted skin, free of scar or any imperfection where it curves over the toned muscle beneath it.

No larger gut and over-reliance on magic for Grayson. He may not have the skills of a witcher, but Slade's had the pleasure of seeing him in a fight more than once, and he's no stranger to a sword. The combination of those skills and the magic is truly devastating.

No more devastating, though, than how he looks stepping into the bath, blue light in his eyes the brightest thing in the room. It would take a stronger man than him to keep their hands to themselves, and Slade doesn't think of many men as his superior, so what chance does anyone really have? Slicked with sweat and droplets of water, smiling, he's irresistible.

They move from bath to bed, eventually, when the water cools and the passion refuses to follow suit.

Grayson's as beautiful in a bed as he is on a battlefield. Uncontrollable and powerful. Unleashed in the most incredible of ways.

Of all the men and women Slade's laid with, there aren't many that compare. Oh, there have been plenty that are enthusiastic, plenty that were beautiful, but not many that put their soul into it like Grayson does. He'd never be foolish enough to think it was love, but Grayson has a passion to him that feigns it; whoever has the luck to be the focus of that attention, will get _all_ of it. Slade's seen enough nobles drunk on that to understand the power of it. Grayson understands that power, too.

Some of it is magic. A lot of it isn't. Slade fell for some of it at first, but then, Grayson fell for his tricks, too. They've shared more history than most; traded favors and everything of the sort back and forth enough times even he finds it hard to recall where the score's ended up.

Grayson's fingers scrape up his back, settling at the back of his shoulder as a head rests between his shoulder blades. The warm skin pressing against him, from shoulder to thigh, is a familiar weight. Fingers trace patterns on his shoulder; runes, by the feel, but there's no power to them. He'd feel it.

He exhales and shifts his arm to a more comfortable angle beneath his head. It's not a bad bed; better than anything he'd get, anyway. He might as well sleep here. He doubts anyone's stupid enough to try stealing his things from his saddlebags, and they'd have to deal with his horse's temper if they did. It'll be safe in the stable for the night.

The fingers trail up the side of his neck, twist into a lock of his hair. "So? I've paid your price; you owe me an answer."

He rolls his eye. "We both know you would have invited me in regardless."

Grayson shifts, presses a little harder against him and hums. "Probably. You took the contract, though, witcher. My part's paid."

Slade sighs and nudges the kid off him, far enough that he can roll over. Grayson makes quite a picture: hair tousled, skin shimmering with the lightest layer of sweat, his cheeks still a little darkened from the flush of arousal. And naked, of course. Tempting as a succubus, with exactly as much chance of killing you if you don't keep your guard up. Slade should know, he's tried that pleasure, too.

"Slade…”

"I cut it, Grayson. That's the whole story."

Grayson's more visible eyebrow arches. "If that's the story, then tell me _why._ " An arm hooks over his waist as Grayson molds up against his front, head resting on one of his arms, eyelids fluttering low for a moment and framing how beautiful the lashes there are. "You didn't just wake up and decide to chop all that off, Slade. Not after over a hundred years with it long. What prompted it?"

Slade's mood sours, just a bit. He grunts.

Grayson waits approximately ten seconds before pressing, "Come on, tell me? Please?"

It's not like he can escape it now. Intrigue might as well be to Grayson what a fresh corpse is to a ghoul; utterly irresistible. Easier to just hold up his end of their 'deal' than to have the sorcerer constantly at his heels until he does, and Grayson can certainly hold a grudge when he wants to. There have been a few chilly years between them in the past. (He's taken offense with some of Slade's jobs, but his bitching about the witcher code and his work's negative effect on public opinion isn't going to stop Slade from taking coin where it's offered. The kid always thaws, eventually.)

"Slade…"

"Just sick of being called by the wrong name, kid," he hands over, then puts a pointed drawl into his voice to add, "Figured cutting off most of my hair might give me enough of a break that I don't wind up beheading the next idiot to do it."

It takes a second for Grayson to parse that, he can see it. The slightly narrowed eyes, the hint of confusion, and then, like he _knew_ would happen, the _grin_.

"Oh, this is about _him_. The _other_ big, tall witcher with—"

"Grayson—"

"—long white-hair—"

" _Don't_."

"—facial scar—"

He growls and rolls over on top of Grayson, pinning him down as the kid's words devolve into a laugh. "Brat," he rumbles, flashing his teeth. "Watch your mouth."

Grayson should be nervous, but all he does is tip his head back, relaxed and entirely unfazed by his threat. "Can you blame them? You certainly _sound_ like a wolf, growling like that."

"He's barely even a century," Slade points out, leaning a little more weight into Grayson's shoulders. "And a pretentious jackass."

"You haven't even met him, Slade."

Slade snorts and lets the kid go, rolling back over. "I don't need to; the damned song's enough."

Grayson follows him, pressing up against his side. "Songs are usually pretty far from the truth," he says, as he gets comfortable. An arm settles across his stomach, a head on his shoulder. "I miss your hair."

"You'll get used to it."

A heavy sigh, close enough to his neck for him to feel the hot rush of air against his skin. "But I'll always miss it."

Slade turns his head enough to pinpoint the crumpled pile of blankets off to the side. "Well," he starts, as he stretches his leg out and hooks his foot underneath the pile, "pray he dies, then."

" _Slade_ , oh my god—”

The bend of his knee drags the pile close enough for his free hand to reach it. He tosses the blankets over the both of them, as much as he can manage without disturbing the kid's chosen spot. "What?"

Grayson makes an affronted noise at him. "Don't 'what' me. You could just not care that some villagers call you by the wrong name, you know. There are worse people to be recognized as."

He eyes the candle across the room, shaping the intent in his mind as he lifts the hand behind Grayson's back to aim. "Well you've never had an inn turn on you because some idiot 'recognized' you from Blaviken." He curls his fingers in one sharp gesture, and the pinpoint blast of force snuffs out the flame. "Never even been to Blaviken," he mutters. "Morons."

A leg hooks over his. "Since when have you cared about things like that?"

He grunts, hooking his arm around Grayson's back and tugging him a little closer. "Since I keep getting accosted by random peasants wanting me to track down their lost cat for _pocket change_. I'm not a damned errand boy, I'm a _witcher_. He's making people think we'll do anything for a little coin."

Grayson hums. "Yeah, of course. Not true at all. You only take coin to assassinate people, not to _help_ them. I mean, gosh. The nerve."

"Shut up, kid."

The laugh is warm against his shoulder. Honestly, Slade's not as annoyed as he could be.

Grayson doesn't need to know that, though.

* * *

"I hope you enjoyed the feast last night."

Slade doesn't roll his eye, though it's tempting. The lord's not being completely blatant about it, but Slade's been around long enough to recognize an attempt to lower his prices as what it is. "There was some decent company," he answers, without truly answering. "Good ale."

The lord — Slade hasn't learned his name, and doesn't care to unless necessary — seems to take it as a victory regardless. "Excellent. Now then, the notice. We've had a rash of killings that seem to be originating from something in the forest nearby. Some of our hunters have found strange tracks leading back to it. No one's seen the creature as far as been's reported, but it's clearly not a man."

Of course not. Men are beyond savage kills and artificially created tracks. That _never_ happens.

"Do you have any corpses left to examine?"

The lord's mouth twists a bit in poorly disguised disgust. “Certainly not here. Perhaps the guards have one they haven’t yet burned; you’ll have to ask them.”

“Fine.” Chances are good, if that’s all this lord feels he needs to know, that he doesn’t know anything of importance anyway. Waste of time even talking to him. Which means the only thing left to clarify is, “And the payment—”

“Will be given upon delivery of proof that the thing is dead," he cuts in with, which is annoying enough that it takes Slade a moment to actually hear the following, "As I told your companion."

He blinks. His… companion?

It couldn't be Grayson. The kid had never asked what he was here for — they both know he doesn't want to know, most times — and Slade had never mentioned, he's sure of that. Besides, Grayson was still in the bed when he left, and he certainly never had time to get here before him and ask all these questions. No reason to, either.

"My companion," he echoes, not quite a question but not a confirmation.

Luckily, lords are prone to filling silences with extra information when given the chance. "Yes, that other witcher. The younger one. I didn't think your kind usually traveled in pairs, but if that's what it takes to get the job done…" The man puffs up suddenly, almost indignant. "Like I told him, though, I'm not paying more just because there's two of you! One job, one payment. I won't be fleeced."

Another witcher? Now that's interesting. Well, the notice was a public call; maybe he wasn't the only one to see it. Wouldn't be the first time he's run into another witcher on the same job. Odd, though, that this other one wouldn't have corrected the assumption they were working together. Hm.

"He's in training," Slade covers, for lack of any better excuse coming to mind. "Don't worry; he won't cost you."

That seems to satisfy. The lord stops looking like he’s trying to look threatening, anyway. (Trying and failing; they never seem to get that Slade saw and fought much more terrifying things than them as nothing but a child. Men don't have the capacity to frighten him, anymore.)

Only for the sake of his payment does he say, "I'll be back when it's done, then," before he turns away, instead of just tossing it over a shoulder. Offended lords have a tendency to try and withhold payment, and it won't work, but it will complicate things if he ever needs to come back here. Better to make them think he cares about their little titles and spheres of influence, rather than just the weight of their gold.

He'll collect his weaponry from the stables, then hunt down where this 'young' witcher is. If he's smart, he'll have taken the same route Slade planned to take; talk to the guards, find the witnesses and get some idea of what he's dealing with, _then_ head into the forest. At this point, though, he doesn't need to do any of that. All he has to do is let this other witcher lead him right to it, then they'll see who ends up actually getting paid.

Experience over youth, after all. No fresh witcher is going to take a bounty from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So this gift fic actually ended up becoming a collab for the second chapter, mostly because we both love the Witcher so much. Hope you enjoy!

Slade finds his 'companion' a ten minute walk into the forest, trudging back along the trail he followed in, a mix of boot prints layered over the tracks of the beasts. Plural, as is obvious by both the tracks, and the size and shape of the sack his witcher friend is carrying in one hand, the bottom just starting to soak through with blood. He'd guess three heads. Maybe four. Foglets, judging by the tracks, but small ones.

The boy is young indeed. Age doesn't leave many marks on their kind, but it leaves enough to tell, if you know how to read the signs. Perhaps one of the very last created, before the art of it was lost. Apparently he's skilled enough to have completed the contract, though. Interesting, because his hair isn't the white or grey Slade would expect. It's almost entirely black, with only one sharp shock of white near his left temple, hanging near to his eye. That's a rarity.

"The hunt go well?" he calls, in the split moment where the boy hasn't noticed him, head still lowered to watch his footing.

It snaps up quickly enough. Sharp yellow eyes fix on him immediately, and teeth bare, shoulders tense. There's no hesitation there; the boy clearly knows that he's stolen the contract, and expects him to be hostile. Well, he's not wrong. Slade has no intention of allowing the boy to take his payment.

Slade takes a step closer, studying how the boy's standing, the armor he's wearing. "You stole my contract, boy.”

The upper lip pulls a little higher; some sharper teeth and the boy would look like the wolf his medallion marks him as. "It was an open job."

"But I was already here. You knew it." There's enough room for the boy to run, if he wants to, but not while carrying that sack. "You're not taking it from me, wolf."

The sack hits the ground. Not so the boy can flee, though, not with how his hand goes to the hilt of one of the swords on his back. "I already did, old man. Back off; the payment's mine."

It's been a long while since he fought one of his own kind, or near enough, anyway. It could be fun.

He moves slow, lifts a hand to his own steel sword and settles into a comfortable stance. “You don’t want to cross swords with me, boy. Last chance.”

Slade can see it now, the sharp edge of desperation under the wariness and defiance. It tells the same story as the dirt on the armor, and the wear on the clothes underneath it. Witcher life is difficult, and worse for the young ones, inexperienced and without contacts or reputation. Some make it. Some don’t.

If he had to guess, he’d say this one’s had a rough time of it. Not from monsters, but from men. Who knows when his last contract was?

The boy snarls. “ _I_ did the work. You want to steal the credit then you go through me, jackass.”

Slade doesn't have any problems with that.

The ringing scrape of his sword coming free is echoed by the boy's, reaction time near instantaneous, as it should be. Wolf school, hm? He'll be well trained, rounded skillset; no areas of expertise due to the youth, but likely not lacking in any area, either. Wolves are good, solid witchers, but they aren't specialized. Most of them, anyway.

Yes, it should be a good fight.

The boy might be desperate, but it hasn't made him stupid. He waits for Slade to make the first move, his muscles coiled, weight balanced easily across both feet to prime him to move any direction. The sword hangs low at his side, ready to deflect or strike as needed. Standard wolf defensiveness, and he’d bet that the moment he strikes, the good little pup will flow right into one of those standard patterns.

So he strikes.

Left, right, quick reverse where standard patterns would dictate that he press, and the pup leaps back to avoid the slice of steel up past his throat with only an inch to spare. Slade whips the blade around as the boy's boots skid against the dirt, and gives chase.

He has the height advantage on him. Weight, too. And probably, given the state of the boy, strength as well — though that’s never entirely a sure thing with how the mutagens work. Some witchers adapt better than others (and in Slade’s case he adapted very well indeed). He keeps pace with the pup easily, darting and testing his reflexes at first, before pressing in for the kill.

Back, forth. Strike, jab, parry, riposte. The boy is surprisingly good for his age. He's not good enough to land anything on Slade, but he's managed to keep from being struck so far, which is better than most that are foolish or unlucky enough to face him manage. The result of natural talent, or a particularly draconian drill master? From what Slade knows of the old wolf Vesemir, probably both.

Not many trainers waste time on the boys that are clear to die, after all. Why bother, when you can spend that time honing the ones that show promise into finely crafted weapons, instead? If this pup showed promise early, he would have gotten special attention. Lots of it.

He's tiring, though. Whether it's a weaker mutagen adaptation, or some level of starvation, the boy's ceding ground. His breath's coming harder, his reactions a hair slower. More than enough to take advantage of.

Slade presses harder, a little faster, till the boy is struggling to keep up with the flash of his sword. Sparks fly with every clash, the ringing of steel deafeningly loud to his sensitive hearing, but not quite enough to drown out the boy's harsh pants and grunts of effort, or the scuff of his boots against the ground. It all comes in at once, painting just as much of a picture as his sight does, filling in for the reduced field of vision from his missing eye with a long-since mastered ease. The adrenaline and focus makes his heart beat faster, riles him in ways even Grayson doesn't manage.

He meets the pup's snarl with a grin. “Ready to call off yet, boy?”

His sword skids off the boy's in a shower of sparks. "Why? Tired, old man?" the boy pants, breathless but just as determined.

He laughs, throwing a little more of his weight into the next slash and watching the tremble of effort that starts at the boy’s shoulder and makes his blade waver as he deflects. The steel only barely misses nicking him. “ _You_ are.”

Not so tired that he doesn’t have the breath to spit, “Always had delusions, or did that come with the old age?”

The folly of youth. They always think they're so _dangerous_.

Slade flashes his teeth, pushing in close to press his advantage. "I see you make up for shoddy bladework with your mouth. That's cute."

“My bladework’s just as good as my mouth, old man,” the kid snaps back at him, before an almost adorable look of horror crosses his face as he realises the double entendre potential of what he just said. “Aw, hell…”

Slade blames his amusement for what happens next. As one moment he’s chuckling at the kid’s mistake, then the next he’s stumbling back with a bloody gash across his thigh. With unprecedented speed, the little wolf has pulled a hitherto unseen knife from somewhere on his person, and struck with his free hand while their blades were still crossed.

“Hah!” The pup grins, flushed with pleasure at his brief triumph. “See? I told you my—”

Before he can even come close to finishing that sentence, Slade makes the sign of Aard with his now blood covered right hand and blasts the kid back into the nearest tree.

The _thwack_ of his armor hitting the trunk is immensely gratifying. So is how he hits the ground at the base of the tree, likely only catching himself on hand and knee because of witcher reflexes.

Slade spares a glance down at his thigh as the kid wheezes in a breath to ascertain damage; painful, messy, but it seems shallow enough it won't kill him any time soon. (A potion or some stitches and he'll be just fine; boy either didn't aim for or missed the artery.) Then he focuses his attention on the boy, whose knife and sword are still in his hands, his head raising and expression wiped clean of that self-satisfied grin. Good.

"You should have aimed for something more deadly," he chides the kid, stepping forward. The wound hurts, but nothing unmanageable. He's fought with worse. "You want to show off, boy? How about signs?"

The kid's eyes widen. He's fast, though. Fast enough to drop the knife and get his own hand up to form a shimmering, golden shield in front of the flame that Slade conjures. He might not be able to slow the boy, or twist his mind, but flame and force work just as well against witchers as anything else.

The ground blackens, as does the tree behind the boy as the flame spills up and over the limit of the shield, setting the wood aflame. Between the orange licks, he can see the gold of the shield shiver and splinter, reaching the limits of the boy's capacity to withhold the fire. Quen is such a fickle sign, and even the fact that the little wolf can summon it beyond the limits of his physical form speaks to either more natural talent, or an unusual interest in the sign itself. So few of the young ones take the time to master such a purely defensive technique when blades are so much more exciting.

Not that it's going to be enough, of course.

Slade keeps his attention on the edges of the shield, waiting for the attempt at escape. If the boy's actions thus far are any indicator, then he's not stupid enough to crouch there till his shield breaks. It's only a matter of how soon he tries to run.

Between the light of shield and flame, he catches the shift of a foot. Coiling muscles.

The moment the boy starts to leap out into a roll, Slade's ready for him. A flick of his sword cuts off the escape route. The little wolf hits the ground with a yelp and a newly bloody cheek, scrambling back as the last flames lick at his calves and boots. He's fast, though. Throws himself into another roll and gets enough distance that Slade can't get to him before he's back up on his feet, sword lifting to deflect his next flurry of blows. He strikes back, drops a hand off the blade's hilt and Slade steps neatly out of the way of the Aard that slams out of it, stirring his hair and nothing else. Standard.

It's easy to take advantage of the new weakness in the one-handed grip. A twisting shove of his sword flicks the boy's out of the way. He thrusts for the little wolf's chest, keeps the twist of his off-hand hidden under the hilt of the blade. The boy reacts the only way he can with his sword too far out to defend, golden flickers of light spreading outwards from the fingers of his free hand just ahead of his blade. The sword deflects harmlessly off the shield with a crackling shower of golden sparks.

Slade releases the Aard building in his other hand straight down into the boy's calves.

There's only time for the boy to gasp, legs swept right out from under him by the blast. He topples. Slade shifts, braces his weight, and brings his knee right up into the kid's face as it comes down. The crunch is more than audible.

The wolf hits the ground on his side, momentum dropping him onto his back in an obvious daze, rich red blood spreading out across his cheeks from the crooked break of his nose. Slade circles around, watching the struggle of the pup to gather himself, rapid blinks and a curve of his back to brace on the hand not still clinging to the hilt of his sword. Good instinct, at least. Slade steps over him, knocking the desperately defensive swing of the wolf's sword aside with a lazy flick and putting a heel right in his sternum.

The air rushing out of his lungs is only a slightly quieter sound than his back slamming into the dirt.

No hidden knives this time. He steps forward and pins the sword to the ground with a boot, and his blade finds a home nestled under the boy's chin, forcing his head back into a shallow arch. He's smart enough to stay very still and only curl his free hand into an impotent fist, not any sort of a sign. His breathing's shallow and strained, a little wet, but he seems to mostly be avoiding choking for now. That'll change if he spends much more time on his back.

"We're done," Slade says, holding the boy's gaze. "Aren't we, boy?"

The boy's teeth bare, just for a moment, under the bloody mess of his nose and cheeks. But he doesn't do anything stupid. "Yes," he agrees, after a few strained moments. Grudging, breathless and with flecks of blood wetting his lips, but Slade doubts it's a lie.

He's proven he's better than the boy, one lucky strike notwithstanding. Even a beaten wolf will tear out a throat if you're stupid enough to bare it, though, and a desperate one is twice as likely to try. Slade has no intention of allowing the little wolf to try anything.

He taps the point of his blade on the boy's throat — a silent reminder of what he could have finished — and takes a pointed glance at the hand the boy still has at the hilt of his sword. The knuckles whiten. They let go.

Slade leans down and picks up the kid's sword as he steps away, testing the heft of it in his hand, the balance. It's a good blade. Well made. Nothing special, but blades don't need to be. Probably just whatever he was given at the completion of his training. He spins it, shoves the point in the dirt and leaves it to stand as he checks his own blade. No blood, good. Looks like that cut to the kid's cheek didn't draw enough to wet the steel.

The kid pushes up on an elbow as Slade sheaths his sword, shifting his shoulders to resettle the weight. The other hand comes up, gingerly feeling at the angle of his broken nose, coming away with fingertips and palm bloody and a clear grimace on his face. He leans to the side, spits blood onto the dirt. His chest's still heaving; winded and breathless, but he'll be fine, just sore for a day or two.

"You've got potential, wolf," Slade comments, glancing around till he finds the glint of the kid's knife, lying in the dirt a couple dozen feet away. He heads towards it. "You're too heavy on your feet; should be mobile when your enemy's stronger, not bracing." He picks up the knife, flips it around in his hand and turns back. "Swordplay's reactionary instead of offensive, and you stick to your little drill patterns too much." He tosses the knife to stick in the dirt next to the kid's sword. "You could have a good specialization with those signs, you've got the control, but there's no creativity in them. You're not hard to figure out; anyone who knows how wolves are trained will wipe the floor with you."

The kid wipes at his jaw, smearing blood over his hand more than anything else. "Gee," he spits, voice now edging into something sharply nasal, "thanks for the _lesson_."

Slade snorts, circling around towards the bag the kid abandoned in the dirt. "If I was going to give you a lesson, kid, I'd teach you not to pick fights with enemies you can't handle. There are better ways to get hurt, if you're looking for that."

It's hard to tell whether the kid blushes, under all that blood, but he does glare. It's just about as threatening as an actual wolf pup would be, all bristled up and snarling. “Fuck you.”

Aggressive, reckless young ones. Not the first he's run into, won't be the last.

Slade hefts the sack, frowning faintly at the twinge in his thigh as he does. He'll have to take a look at that, once he's back on his horse. Kid didn't get him that deeply, but it's still bleeding a bit. He'll check it then.

"Wait!"

He looks over his shoulder, towards where the kid is getting to his feet. Stumbling a little, dazed, but he gets his legs under him. Slade's pretty sure the kid's not going to try and fight him again, and he's just curious enough to pause and see what he wants before he leaves.

The little wolf spits another mouthful of blood to the side before looking at him, hesitance easy to see in his gaze. "I… _Fuck_." Teeth grit for just a moment, before the kid releases it with a grimace. "I shouldn't have tried to take the contract," he grits out. "But I— I just need— Could I get _something?"_ There's a moment of pause, as Slade just looks at him, and then the kid folds. "Please?"

Easy enough to see the desperation.

Slade considers, taking the kid in with a sweep of his gaze. There's everything he noticed earlier, the signs of disrepair, the likely hunger… Hm.

His leg stings. It would be more comfortable to not have the weight of the bag to deal with.

"You're not getting any of the coin," he says. The kid's expression crumples, at the edges.

Slade grunts, and tosses the bag his direction. It hits the ground at his feet.

"I'm staying another night in town. Carry that back, and I'll make sure that you get a meal. You can go your own way tomorrow."

Relief lowers the kid's shoulders, a breath coming in deep and slow as his head dips. It sounds grudging, still, but he does say, "Thank you."

Slade's not going to criticize the wolf for not appreciating it. It's scraps, and they both know it. Like they both also know that Slade didn't have to give anything at all, considering the boy tried to steal a contract out from under him. He's lucky to get anything. (And he's certainly not doing anything for the kid's benefit. It's convenient for him, and if the kid's willing to work for a meal, then Slade may as well take advantage of it.)

He turns away, and starts towards the edge of the forest. He hears the scrape of steel against sheath behind him, and a grunt of effort and pain. He'll manage; witchers as a rule can handle a lot more than a broken nose, and Slade didn't hit him hard enough to crack his skull.

Footsteps start following him, and Slade stops listening. The kid’s fine.

* * *

The local lord seems a little put off by the kid having dried blood all down the front of him, but he’s not stupid enough to try and barter. The kid agreed to a lower amount than Slade would have, but he doesn’t feel like trying to argue it, and he’d rather this place think he was discounting the work because of training some kid, rather than that there’s some other witcher out there willing to take it on for less.

Grayson, still in the room Slade intends on using as his own, takes one look at the kid following him and takes over. In the time it takes Slade to find a servant and make sure that a dinner for the three of them will get delivered to the room, come evening, Grayson’s got the wolf stripped down and in a bath, wrapped around his fingers like everyone else that comes into contact with him and awed by his very presence.

Apparently, his name is Jason. He’s as young as Slade expected. He’s been scraping by for months. (Grayson gives him a look that he refuses to interpret.)

Slade sets to work maintaining his swords, first, and armor second. He keeps an eye on the two of them, and an ear open to their conversation.

Casually, as Grayson helps the pup clean the blood off his face — the nose is set by hand, but eased by a healing touch immediately afterward, as much as witcher resistance will allow — and wash the dirt from his skin, he coaxes the story out piece by piece. The fight with the foglets apparently went well, but Slade could have guessed that. Four heads and no injuries; he's a decent witcher, just inexperienced.

Grayson gives him a reproachful look when he learns Slade's the reason the kid's nose is broken. Another, a minute later, when he finds out that Slade 'hired' him to carry the bag back in exchange for a meal.

" _Slade_." Grayson actually sounds like he's trying to shame him. "You're not even going to give him a share of the reward?"

He arches an eyebrow. Grayson should know better. "No."

"That's not fair. He's the one that did the work."

The wolf doesn't quite squirm, but he doesn't look particularly comfortable being in the middle of them.

"He _stole_ the work," Slade corrects. "If you're so concerned with fair, Grayson, then you pay him."

"I will."

The kid stares, sunk down up to his shoulders in the water as Grayson stands, crossing to the bag left on the desk in a flourish of blue velvet and flared silk sleeves. Slade pays as much attention to the tight fit of his pants as he does how the wolf is looking too. Of course he is; no one can ignore Grayson's pull, even when it's not aided by magic. It's the confidence, the artificially perfected looks, and the _power_ that crackles just under his skin. If the little wolf's medallion is worth a damn, every touch of Grayson's hands will be making it thrum. Slade's always does.

Blue-green eyes flick to him, the wolf's cheeks flushing red as he notices he's been caught staring. Slade smirks, crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat. As Grayson digs into his bag, Slade lets his gaze wander slightly, eyeing what little of the wolf is visible above the water. Pale skin, freckles scattered over the top of his shoulders and inching onto his neck. A nasty scar at his throat, a slit that stretches across the entirety of one side, but that's the only one that's visible.

Brat, maybe, but the pup's not bad looking. Shame he wasn't here when Grayson got him out of the armor. Well, there's no rush. He'll see everything whenever the kid gets out of the bath.

Lifting his gaze back up shows him that the kid's cheeks have gone an even brighter shade, and when Slade lets his teeth flash in a tiny grin, the kid gives an embarrassed, defensive scowl. Slade holds back a laugh only because Grayson's turning back around, a fine, black cloth pouch in his hand. He moves back over with the same flourish of fabric, and with a pointed glance at Slade, drops the pouch in the wolf's hastily lifted hand. It clinks, heavily.

That's probably more than Slade even made on the whole thing. Show off.

"Work should be rewarded," Grayson says, sitting back down on the little stool beside the bath, pushing his sleeves back up. "Don't mind Slade. He's a pessimist."

"I'm a realist." He watches Grayson encourage the kid to lean back and wet his hair, fingers soothing through it once, then again with some sort of soap. Probably the same he used on him, last night. "If you pick the wrong work, you don't get paid. Your idealistic views don't change that, Grayson."

Grayson gives him another look. " _You_ don't accept being denied payment. Why should he?" A lesser man might call the expression scathing, but Slade just smirks in answer.

He pushes to his feet, taking his time crossing the room and circling around to lean over Grayson's back, bringing his mouth close to his ear. "He's not _me._ "

Grayson doesn't shiver. He's too controlled for that. But there is heat in his gaze, when he turns his head. "He could be."

A threat? Proposition? Knowing Grayson, it's both.

He takes a glance down at the wolf, hair rinsed clean but still with Grayson's fingers stroking at his scalp. His eyes are open, trained upwards to look at them, but every scrape of Grayson's nails makes his eyelids flicker, his attention waver. This angle, too, gives Slade a much clearer look at what's under the water. Not bad at all.

Slade lifts a hand and slides it, slow and sure, around Grayson's throat. The wolf tenses, but Grayson doesn't flinch. His pulse doesn't even raise, not till Slade gives a gentle squeeze, tilting his head back half an inch. "Not in every way," he murmurs.

Grayson, for all his pointed guilting, meets his kiss with just as much banked desire as ever. Now his pulse rises, thudding under Slade's palm. He takes it slow, holds Grayson in the kiss until he's thoroughly tasted him again, and left his bottom lip reddened from the attention of his teeth. He always looks especially good with his mouth like that, used and drawing attention as surely as the bright edge of magic in his eyes. Tempting, and oh so dangerous.

"You'll be waiting a long time for him to come close to matching me, kid."

Grayson's tongue wets his bottom lip. "Less, if someone teaches him."

Slade takes a look down at the wolf, flushed and barely breathing as he stares. He lets his lips curl in a smile just sharp enough to make the little wolf's throat bob in a rough swallow, and his legs shift, under the water. "I could do that," he agrees, stroking the column of Grayson's trachea with his thumb as he lets go. "But you might want to look again, Grayson. He's not interested in learning _my_ side of things."

Grayson's gaze lowers, and his fingers spread out, scraping wet hair away from the little wolf's eyes and then sliding through to get a firm handful at the back of his skull and _pull_. The wolf sucks in a breath, eyes flickering as his throat arches. Back and back, till the back of his head presses to the inside of Grayson's thigh and his spine's bowed just enough to lift his pectorals out of the water. Not a complaint, not a protest. Just red cheeks and uneven breath, one hand gripping tight to the edge of the tub.

Grayson smiles. "I think we can work with that." A scrape of perfectly maintained nails over the wolf's cheekbone, enough to draw his eyes open, pull his gaze up to the two of them, where it can't seem to decide where to settle. "What do you think, Slade?"

He thinks the little wolf is as hopelessly ensnared as anyone else that Grayson sets his sights on, and he doesn't mind taking advantage of that fact. He's not one to turn down pleasures when they're offered.

"I don't mind sharing," Slade comments, looking down at the boy. "If the wolf thinks he can handle us."

Grayson's voice is warm and suggestive, asking, "Jason?"

The wolf swallows. And nods.

* * *

Grayson's the first to wake in the morning, sliding out of bed as Slade slits his eye open and watches. The wolf stays slumbering, caged under his arm and dead to the world as Grayson dresses and gathers his things, leaning down to give over one long, lingering kiss. Just one. Slade lets him go without a fuss.

They'll meet again. They always do.

He admires the wolf, once Grayson's gone. There's still the shadow of bruises along his back, from where Slade cracked him into one of the posts of the bed. Some along the visible skin of his lower arm, too, and Slade can imagine there are matching ones on the other side. They contrast attractively against the paleness of the kid's skin, practically begging for further attention, just like the little wolf did the day before. It's tempting, knowing that he could press his thumb into those bruises over the kid's spine and get him to twist and groan.

It's refreshing to have someone in his bed that can match his stamina, he'll admit that. Grayson is beautiful, and passionate, but he's still mostly human. The wolf, though, apparently shares the same mutagen side effect that most of them do. Heightened sexual appetite, and the endurance to match. The kid recovers quickly, and even shared between him and Grayson, didn't start to truly flag until later in the night.

(It was its own brand of enjoyable, too, to have the kid when he was wiped out. Trembling and pliable, overstimulated as Slade took everything he wanted.)

The memories encourage an easily predictable response. There's no urgency to it, though, just a slow simmer that he's easily capable of ignoring, at least for now. It's rare that he's as satisfied as he is right now. The succubus he tangled with, a long time ago, managed it, but that was as much a draining of his life force as the sex itself. The other occasions have been… expensive. An occasional indulgence, when he's flush with coin and there are no demands on his time.

Hm.

Slade spends another few minutes enjoying the warmth of the kid's body pressed against his own, the beat of their hearts and the faint whistle of breath the only sound in the room, before more pressing needs than arousal encourage him to get out of the bed.

That's enough to wake the kid, who stirs as Slade leaves the bed, and is sitting up when he returns from relieving himself. The blanket is pooled at his waist, hair a bit of a mess. Slade finds himself very much wanting to pull it, arch the wolf's neck and add some more bruises to it, now that the ones from the night before are only barely visible. The kid looking up at him with a little flush, fingers curling into the blanket, only heightens that.

Slade considers for a few moments more. Really, the conclusion is simple enough.

"I'll train you."

The wolf blinks at him. "What?"

Slade lifts an eyebrow. "You're a decent witcher. You could be much better. You travel with me, I'll give you a small cut of any bounties, and I'll train you." He shifts forward, getting a knee on the bed and reaching out for the kid, wrapping his hand around the back of his neck and tipping his head back, to meet his gaze head-on. "In exchange, you're mine. Whenever I want, however I want. That sound like a deal to you?"

The wolf swallows, and Slade feels the faint tremble as much as he sees it. "How big is a 'small cut?'"

"For now, ten percent. If you end up being more useful than I expect, I'll reconsider."

Teeth pull at the kid's bottom lip, gaze uncertain as it holds his. "Sounds expensive for you."

Slade laughs, climbing forward to grab the kid's arm with his free hand and dig his fingers into the faint bruises there, drawing a sharp inhalation and a faint flutter of eyelashes. "If you haven't figured this out yet, boy, I like sex." He lets go of the kid's neck and wraps the arm around his back instead, feeling out where he remembers the bruises there being. He strikes gold when the kid jerks a bit and his head falls back, spine arching under his touch.

The kid grabs his side, clings hard enough to dig nails into his skin. "Never would have guessed," he breathes, like the brat he is.

Oh, Slade's going to enjoy seeing how much it takes to shut that mouth up, at some point. Over a knee, or maybe he'll just lay the kid over his saddle and work on it while they travel. He bets the kid will enjoy that, too.

He leans in to take advantage of the open throat, nipping at it as he speaks. "Youngling like you might not know this, but whores cost, and the ones that like being bruised up cost more." He picks a high, visible spot just under the kid's jaw, and takes it between his teeth. Rolls it hard enough the kid groans, but Slade knows now that he can take — and enjoy — harder. "You're an investment," he says, when he lets go. Rumbles it into the kid's neck to feel him shiver. "My very own wolf pet, as long as I feel like keeping you."

The kid shudders harder at that; makes a small, choked sound. Slade adds that to his mental list of potential areas of play. Little wolf would look good in a collar. One thing he has to make clear, though, before the kid agrees.

Slade presses him down, loosely pinning him with palms at his shoulders, weight bearing down as he looks the kid in the eye. "I'm not one of your little wolf pack, though, boy. I'm not nice, I don't have patience for stupidity, and I'll expect you to put your full effort into whatever I tell you to do and not waste my time. I take contracts on humans when I feel like it, I do things dirty when I have to. If any of that is a problem, tell me now and we can go our separate ways."

For a moment, the wolf studies him. Still with the flush lingering, but serious enough, with narrowed eyes and just a bit of tension in the shoulders under his hands. Then, the kid nods. Slow and relatively small, acknowledgement, more than agreement.

"It's not a problem."

Good. If the little wolf was as much of a stick in the mud as Grayson, they might have had issues. Luckily, looks like the usual strict moral black-and-white of the wolves passed this one by. At least enough for his purposes.

"Then have we got a deal, wolf?"

The kid's gaze flicks to the dangling chain of his medallion, just for a second. His chin tilts up. "Deal, cat."

Slade cracks a smirk. "Good choice."

As his hands come off the boy's shoulders, the kid starts to push up. "So where do we start?"

That's cute. The kid really thinks they're going to hit the ground running, just like that.

He shoves the kid back down, caging him in with a hand next to his head. "With you on your stomach," he orders, through his smirk. "We'll leave later. When I'm done with you."

Slade hopes the little wolf never stops turning this red. It's entertaining. So is the fact that he's more than a little hard.

He rolls over, and Slade hums his approval. "Good boy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Skali's tumblr](https://skalidra.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [Fire's tumblr](https://firefrightfic.tumblr.com/)


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